(A TRIBUTE TO A CHAIRPERSON NOT
SO MUCH RETIRING AS RETIRED)
INTRODUCTION
Should you ask me, whence these
members?
Whence these spinsters and
divorcees,
With their stories of betrayals,
With their sorrows and their
hang-ups,
Whence these newly separated,
With the fret and fume of
break-ups,
And the bachelor contingent,
With their deep-laid egocentrics,
As of whistling in the kitchens?
I should answer, I should tell you,
From the cities and the suburbs,
From the bounds of the Great North
Ways,
From the land of the New
Southgates,
From the land of the Cockfosters,
From the commons, ponds and
parkways,
Where the hero, the Bob-Kurschner,
Feeds among the pubs and taverns,
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Jay-the-Linden,
The musician, the sweet singer.
Should you ask where Jay-the-Linden
Found these songs, so wild and
wayward,
Found these legends and
traditions,
I should answer, I should tell
you,
In the midst of Epping Forest,
In the mumblings of the rambler,
In the hoof-prints of the
Houghton,
In the eyrie of the Eckett!
All the sad-folk sang them to him,
In the Meadways and the Burroughs,
From the melancholy Marcias;
Don-the-Bake, the consort, sang
them,
Pete-the-Loon, the wild-Gwen,
Wawa,
The blue hero, Bob-the-Kurschner,
And the grouse, the
John-the-Rayner!
If still further you should ask me,
Saying, Who was Jay-the-Linden?
Tell us of this Jay-the-Linden.
I should answer your enquiries
Straightway in such words as
follows.
In the vale of Barnets centre,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant picnic-parties,
Dwelt the singer Jay-the-Linden.
Round about the Barnet village
Spread the members and
prospectives,
And beyond them stood the forest,
Stood the hordes of singing
outcasts,
Brown in Summer, blue in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing.
And the pleasant meeting places,
You could trace them through the
borough,
By the Red Lion in the
Spring-time,
By the Green Man in the Summer,
By the White Horse in the Autumn,
By the Black Bull in the Winter;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of Barnets centre,
In the green and silent borough.
There he sang of Hiawalpole,
Sang the song of Hiawalpole,
Sang her wondrous birth and being,
How she chaired and how she voted,
How she ruled, and toiled, and
harried,
That the Thirty-plus might
prosper,
That she might advance her
members!
Ye who love the haunts of Barnet,
Love the sunshine of the Southgate,
Love the shadow of the Whetstone,
Love the wind among the Ponders,
And the Potters and the Bushey,
And the rushing of great traffic
Through the palisades of zebras,
And the thunder in High Loughton,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like Ecketts in their eyries;
-
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this Song of Hiawalpole!
Ye who love a singles legends,
Love the ballads of a circle,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and
childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken; -
Listen to this Barnet Legend,
To this Song of Hiawalpole.
Ye who sometimes in your rambles
Through the Green-slades of the
county,
Where the tangled barberry-wardles
Hang their tufts of crimson Beryls
Over stone walls grey with
Husseys,
Pause by some neglected tavern,
For a while to muse, and ponder
On a half-effaced graffito,
Written with little skill of
song-craft,
Homely phrases, but each letter
Full of hope and yet of
heart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the insecure, and weirdness; -
Stay and read this rude graffiti,
Read this Song of Hiawalpole.
The music on this page is The Faery Woods by Bjorn Lynne
Click on his "button" above and check out his site